


Side by Side, We Suffer

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 20:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20159848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: “D-don’t … don’t go. Please, don’t go. Crowley! Don’t leave me! I can’t … I can’t bear to lose you!”"I'm not going anywhere, angel. Not without you."





	Side by Side, We Suffer

“D-don’t go …”

Aziraphale’s eyes scan the dank room for any sign of his demon. The tub is there, positioned in front of a pane of grime-covered glass; stained walls, paint peeling to reveal mold underneath; flies everywhere he turns, tormenting his eyes, his ears, and his mouth. A single swinging light overhead sputters in shades of white-blue light.

And everything smells _evil_.

Sharp, pungent, oppressive evil.

“Crowley?” he calls, his voice a squeak. He needs to go in search of his demon, but he doesn’t know where to look.

Doesn’t matter. His feet refuse to move.

There are signs of Crowley everywhere.

His glasses on the floor at Aziraphale’s feet.

His coat, folded neatly over a chair.

His snakeskin shoes underneath that.

But Crowley, either in human or demon or serpent form, is nowhere to be seen.

Aziraphale’s throat goes dry, his head tightens, his heart races as he spins around in circles, praying that wherever Crowley is, he’s okay.

“Crowley? Where are you? Don’t … don’t go. Come back.”

Aziraphale gathers up the glasses, gathers up the coat. He sits in the chair and hugs them to his chest. He’s alone – _so_ alone. Not in heaven nor on Earth has he felt so alone. And tired. And scared. He doesn’t want this to be his life.

He doesn’t want this to be the end of Crowley.

It can’t be.

But his things are here, abandoned. And that tub beside him is filled with holy water. There’s only one explanation that Aziraphale can think of.

But he can’t, because it’ll choke the heart right out of him.

His love for Crowley couldn’t make him fall.

Crowley’s death definitely will.

Aziraphale and Crowley have been friends for over 6000 years, but much of that time was spent apart. But in his entire existence, the times they spent together are the only ones Aziraphale chooses to remember.

They’re the only ones that don’t blur together.

They had a plan. A _good_ plan. Not an ineffable plan, but it should have worked. But when he saw Crowley dragged away inside his body, every cell of his soul screamed for him to stop them.

And he tried.

He was knocked unconscious. After that, he had to have faith that Crowley would be safe.

Him, too.

For a moment, while Aziraphale sat in that tub of holy water, playing the part of his traitorous demon, he entertained what might happen if they didn’t pull this off. Worst, he thought a bit too long over what his life would be like if he made it but Crowley didn’t, what it would be like to sit on their favorite park bench, praying he would come and knowing he would never arrive. Would he leave and never return? Go on with his existence an empty shell of an angel until hellfire somehow claimed him? Or would he sit there like a stone statue until the cloth of his favorite coat disintegrated at the seams?

He could very well imagine himself doing all.

An eternity without the demon he’d grown so fond of.

The demon he’d grown to love.

He might as well walk into the fires of hell himself.

Aziraphale creeps over to the tub and risks a peek in. The water is clear and calm, the bottom of the tub visible. There’s nothing in it. Not a speck of dust, not a crumb, not a single dead fly even though they’re everywhere. Nothing to disturb the surface. The reflection in the water is his own. Aziraphale. Angel. In his own cream colored coat and tartan collar. But he’d been in Crowley’s body, wearing Crowley’s clothes.

His clothes are here.

But Crowley isn’t.

Aziraphale’s breathing quickens, his chest no longer able to contain it, burning on the inside as if his lungs are full to the brim. They must have found out! They _must_ have! They discovered their deception, forced them to change, then drug Crowley down here and …

“No!” Aziraphale screams at his own reflection. “Crowley! Please! Don’t be gone! Don’t leave me! You can’t! _Please_!”

That final please gets swallowed when what’s left of his breath disappears entirely.

His demon gone.

And not just dead.

Dissolved.

Decimated.

His body and soul removed from existence, not a molecule of him left.

And the only thought in Aziraphale’s head - finding a way to follow him.

A hand grabs him – reaches out of the water to wrap long, thin fingers around his forearm. They don’t tug. They simply hold. Aziraphale can’t see a body attached to the hand, but he understands.

He knows whose hand this is.

Aziraphale’s life has been spent devoid of touch. Angels aren’t particularly warm or affectionate beings. They’re rather bureaucratic in nature. Because of that, Aziraphale can’t remember the first time he was properly hugged, but he knows the first time he was kissed.

That one belonged to Crowley.

Since they’ve been together, Crowley has touched him dozens of times, and each one left a mark upon his skin as permanent as the hex on Crowley’s face. So the hand taking his, reaching up through the water, had to be his. Somehow, even in this tub of holy water, which is poison to a demon, he’s in there, and he needs Aziraphale to pull him out.

“Don’t leave me!” the angel cries, holding on to the hand in his as if it’s his only connection to sanity. “Please! I can’t bear to lose you! Please! Please!”

He hears a quiet voice, the words it speaks letting him know that even in hell, everything is going to be alright.

“I’m not going anywhere, angel. Not without you.”

***

“D-don’t … don’t go. Please, don’t go. Crowley! Don’t leave me! I can’t … I can’t bear to lose you!”

Crowley hears his angel’s voice coming to him through the fire. A hand reaches out from a spire of orange flame and grabs his wrist, holds on tight. Crowley wakes with a start, opens his eyes to a room on fire – everything around him consumed by a wall of flame.

“No,” he whispers in fear and defeat. “No. No!” His breaks into a cold sweat, his head spinning as he tries to make sense of what’s going on. It’s the fire. The bookshop! Aziraphale’s gone and his bookshop is on fire!

The bookshop is on fire, and his best friend is dead.

Someone has killed his best friend!

“_Bastards_!”

But there’s a hand holding his. _Aziraphale’s_ hand. A hand wearing a ring that matches his own. And in the grasp of that one hand, the memories come back to him.

He’s not in the bookshop. He’s in his own flat. And Aziraphale’s not gone. He’s lying beside him, Crowley’s heart starting again the second skin touches skin. So this fire - the one creeping across his floor, attempting to reach the far wall - is not real. It’s all in Crowley’s imagination. He can see his unburnt walls and furniture if he focuses hard enough.

If he wills it away, it’ll go away.

He wishes he could do the same with his husband’s nightmares. Or his own.

Crowley inches closer to his husband and puts Aziraphale’s hand over his heart. “I’m not …” He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting faint memories of a nightmare all too real. The roar of it pings through his head, its rage flashes in front of his eyes, its heat kisses his skin, leaving a signature that has yet to fade away. But his angel’s hand in his begins to extinguish it, brings on the rain, with Aziraphale standing beside him, one white wing arched over his head, keeping him safe from the coming storm. Aziraphale curls into Crowley’s side, latching on with his whole shaking body, white wings unfurling to wrap around him. Crowley swallows hard. Calming his breathing, he rids himself, and his room, of the fire. “I’m not going anywhere, angel,” he whispers – filling his husband’s ears with promises and his forehead with kisses. “Not without you.”


End file.
